January 28, 1984 - Tommy's apartment
Tommy didn't rush.
He spent two weeks just thinking. Like analyzing a complex aerospace problem—you don't start building until you understand the system.
The first thing he did was call Linda.
"I need you to do something. Call Baltimore Bank & Trust. Ask about accessing a safety deposit box. Say you're interested in Box 247 for February 15th at 10 AM."
"Why would I—"
"Because if they're monitoring calls, they'll see a woman asking a routine question. It's nothing. But it gives them a reason to think someone is coming."
Linda did it. The bank confirmed the appointment.
Then Tommy waited.
On February 10th, he read about Carol Martinez's death. Car accident. Single vehicle. No witnesses.
He looked up her job: assistant manager at Baltimore Bank & Trust.
The pattern was clear. Someone knew about Box 247. Someone had been preparing to help with access. That person was eliminated.
Which meant: they were watching. And they would watch harder now.
February 5, 1984
Tommy called David Park, an old friend from Berkeley he hadn't spoken to in five years.
"I need a favor. It's not dangerous, but it's unusual."
"What kind of favor?"
"I need you to go to a bank in Baltimore. Access a safety deposit box using my power of attorney. Photograph some documents. That's it. One hour of your time."
David hesitated. "Why?"
"I can't explain now. But I'll cover all expenses."
"Tommy..."
"I know it sounds strange. But I'm asking."
David agreed.
February 14, 1984
Tommy prepared David carefully.
A power of attorney, technically legitimate, printed on good paper. A compact camera. Fast film. A list of what to photograph.
"You go in at 10 AM. Tell them you're a lawyer handling estate matters. If they ask detailed questions, you don't know much—you're just doing paperwork."
"What if they don't let me?"
"Then you leave. No pressure. We try again another day."
David nodded, gathering his things.
At the door, Tommy stopped him.
"One more thing. When you finish photographing—before you leave the viewing room—take the film out of the camera. Put the roll in your sock."
David blinked. "My sock?"
"Your sock."
"Why would I—"
"Just do it. Exactly that. Film out, into your sock, then walk out with the camera around your neck like nothing happened."
"Tommy, that's weird."
"Humor me."
David stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine. Sock. Whatever you say."
Tommy didn't explain. Some things worked better unexplained.
February 15, 1984 - Morning
Tommy waited in a motel room in Virginia, next to a payphone.
Rachel Zhou, his reconnaissance contact from Caltech, sat in a coffee shop across from the bank. Just watching.
9:55 AM: "Quiet. Normal bank traffic."
10:15 AM: "Two men in dark suits just went in. Focused. Not like customers."
Tommy's stomach tightened.
10:23 AM: "They left. Only inside five minutes. Didn't look happy."
10:28 AM: "David just came out. Looks okay."
10:40 AM: "He's gone. I don't see anyone following."
Tommy exhaled. It had worked.
Or so he thought.
February 15, 1984 - 10:45 AM - Three blocks from the bank
David walked toward the Greyhound station, camera around his neck, briefcase in hand.
He'd done everything. Photographed the letters, the documents, the photographs. And—feeling ridiculous the entire time—he'd pulled the film roll from the camera in the viewing room and stuffed it into his sock.
It pressed against his ankle with every step. Absurd. Paranoid.
Two men stepped out of a doorway ahead of him.
Casual clothes. Athletic build. Moving with purpose.
David's instincts screamed. He turned.
A third man stood behind him.
"The camera," the man said quietly. "Give it to us. Now."
David's heart slammed against his ribs. The street was busy—cars passing, pedestrians half a block away—but the three men had positioned themselves so no one could see what was happening. Professional. Practiced.
"Okay," David said, hands shaking. "Okay. Take it."
He lifted the strap over his head. Handed it over.
The man opened the film compartment.
Empty.
The air changed. All three men went still.
"Where's the film?"
"I—what?" David's voice cracked. "There was film. I loaded it this morning. I photographed the documents—"
The man grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall.
"Where. Is. The film."
"I don't know! Maybe it—maybe I loaded it wrong? I'm a lawyer, not a photographer! The guy just told me to take pictures, I've never even used that camera before—"
"Search him."
Hands went through his briefcase. Papers scattered. His jacket—inside pockets, outside pockets. His wallet, opened, dumped. His waistband. His shirt.
David stood shaking against the wall, arms spread, while they stripped his dignity away layer by layer.
The sock. They're going to check the sock. They're going to—
"Nothing."
"Check the briefcase lining."
The briefcase was torn open. Nothing.
The lead man stepped very close to David's face.
"Who sent you?"
"Thomas Forsyth. He paid me five hundred dollars to handle estate paperwork. That's all I know. Look—look, my card's in the wallet. I do wills and probate. I don't know what this is about. I don't want to know what this is about."
The man studied him. Ten seconds. Twenty.
David let every ounce of genuine terror show on his face. It wasn't hard.
"The film was never in the camera," the man finally said to the others. "The lawyer's a decoy. Forsyth kept the real access for himself."
He turned back to David.
"Go. Forget this happened. Forget Forsyth. If you talk to anyone—anyone—we'll know."
They melted into the city, taking the empty camera with them.
David stood against the wall until his legs worked again.
Then he walked—didn't run, walked—toward the Greyhound station.
The film roll pressed against his ankle with every step.
Sock, he thought, hysteria bubbling under his breath. He said sock. And I asked why.
February 15, 1984 - Evening - Rest stop, Maryland
Tommy had been waiting four hours past schedule. He'd started planning for the worst—what to do if David never showed, who to call, how to run.
Then the Greyhound pulled in, and David stepped off. Pale. Rumpled. His briefcase held together with one broken clasp.
He got in the car. Didn't speak for ten minutes.
Then: "They took the camera."
Tommy's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. "What?"
"Three men. On the street, three blocks from the bank. They knew exactly what I had. They took the camera, searched everything—my bag, my jacket, my wallet. They tore my briefcase apart."
Tommy felt the world tilt. All of it. The planning, the risk, Carol Martinez's death, David's safety—for nothing—
David reached down. Pulled off his shoe. Then his sock.
A small black film canister dropped into his palm.
"They never checked my sock," David said. "Who checks a sock?"
Tommy stared at the film roll.
Three men. Professional operatives. Willing to commit robbery in daylight. They'd searched a briefcase lining—and walked away with an empty camera, convinced the lawyer was a decoy.
Beaten by a sock.
Tommy started laughing. He couldn't help it. It came out of him in waves—exhaustion, terror, relief, all of it at once.
David stared at him. Then he started laughing too. Ragged, half-hysterical.
"You knew," David gasped. "You knew they'd come for the camera."
"I suspected."
"And you didn't tell me?!"
"If I'd told you, you'd have been nervous walking out of the bank. They'd have read it on your face. You'd have glanced at your feet, touched your ankle, something." Tommy pulled the car onto the highway. "You were only safe because you thought the sock thing was stupid."
David wiped his eyes. Then his face went serious again.
"Tommy. Will they come back for me?"
Tommy didn't answer right away.
"They believed your story," he said finally. "For now. Take the trip we planned. Stay away from Berkeley for a few weeks."
"That's not a no."
It wasn't.
February 15, 1984 - Night - The cabin in Maryland
Tommy developed the film in the makeshift darkroom. Black towels over windows. Red light. Careful chemical work.
One by one, the images surfaced in the developing tray, like things rising from deep water.
Marie's letters. Readable.
The genealogy chart. Clear.
His half-sister's face, at three, at eight, at eleven. Serious eyes. His eyes.
Rick's notebook pages. Line after line of careful analysis that always ended the same way: I never found the leverage points.
By midnight, the prints hung drying on a wire like small ghosts.
Tommy stood looking at them.
Three men had robbed David in broad daylight for this. Carol Martinez had died for this. The system had exposed its own operatives, committed crimes in public, taken real risks—
—to seize a dead man's letters. Family photographs. A notebook full of admitted failures.
They don't know what's in the box, Tommy realized. They never knew. They just knew my father hid something—so it had to be dangerous.
He picked up the photograph of his half-sister at eleven. A girl in front of a school building in Shanghai, thirty-two years ago.
Somewhere across the world, she was a grown woman now. If she was alive.
And someone—the same someone who sent three men after an empty camera—considered her existence worth killing over.
Which meant Rick's letters were wrong about one thing.
There was something dangerous in Box 247.
Tommy just didn't know yet what made her dangerous.